


Not just any Waiting Room

by Damceon



Category: Gamer Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23255923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damceon/pseuds/Damceon
Summary: Jumping-off point of a campaign... never did get this one going... pity.





	Not just any Waiting Room

A waiting room in Hell.

More specifically, a waiting room in Abriymoch on Phlegethos, Third Layer of the Nine… and the waiting room is filled with devils of many sorts. Cramped into an undersized space for the sheer numbers of beings awaiting their turn to be called.

“Arganax, Pilius, Iqorvo… the Marshall will see you.” A green abishai, a hamatula, and a cornugon shove and twist through the crush of bodies to pass through the relatively narrow doorway to the room beyond.

The Marshall. Marshall Kiu’roz Hellspit, Second Commander of Zapan’s 3rd Company, is known for being a dutiful vassal of Zapan of the Dark Eight. Kiu’roz Hellspit has served as Second Commander of the 3rd Company for more than six centuries… the longest service without promotion or demotion for one of his rank on record. It is said that he keeps his post because he has reached as far as he pleases, or that he simply is incapable of greater deeds. Whatever the truth, he is often viewed as permanent a fixture as the General he serves. First Commander Egiuj Archonslayer was recently promoted to his current rank over Kiu’roz (only two centuries ago), but often defers to the older veteran’s judgment on tactics and strategy.

Slowly, the waiting room begins to clear. It’s a delicious sort of agony, listening to the sporadic boom of violent, fiery explosions and the wails of the tortured damned echoing outside. This building is like many others in Abriymoch… but why has the Marshall called you from your duties? A being with such responsibilities as Kiu’roz would have his reasons, assuredly… and that meant the possible avenue of promotion.

While you watch the throng in the waiting room thin, you begin to wonder if all these other devils are here for the same assignment. Clearly, they were not all called from the same place or even rank! Already, a half-dozen abishai, four cornugons, six gelugons, twelve hamatulas, nine imps, three erinyes, and one pit fiend have been called to meet with the Marshall. Several lemures were also called, but more like they served as the Marshall’s repast.

You have been waiting for a full turning, what Primes would call a “month”. Day and night mean nothing here. There is only the red-orange glow in the room and the ever-dwindling number of devils waiting their turn. From the time you arrived, nine hundred sixty-three devils have passed ahead of you (not counting the lemures… who would?). Now, there are only six left in the room.

Anxious… yes, you can see that one of them is very anxious. A foul little wretch of a baarbezu, his beard twitching as his claws knit through its gnarled length. Why is he here? So wild-eyed and fidgetting, you wonder if maybe the lemures would’ve served better at whatever task the Marshall had called this bearded devil for. It doesn’t matter… he and two more are called next.

That leaves you with two devils you’ve never had occasion to meet… or serve with, that you recall. You hide your suspicion as you assess them, gauging their worth to you and considering how best to use them for your advancement. It seems an odd grouping, but their have been many of those already. Now you wait for the Marshall’s liesure… you must be next… there are no others waiting, save you three.

…

The door opens, and the aide does not even bother with your names… does not even bother to look at you or acknowledge your rank… does not bother with even a passing formality beyond the most simple; “You lot.”

It’s almost too much to move, so long you’ve been waiting for the door to open… and yet, you’re moving quickly toward the door… through… into the short hallway of cracked orange quartz and black porphyritic basalt, with heavy tapestries on either side. To your left, an angel being drawn and quartered “Millennia of Smiles”… and to your right, General Zapan’s route of the demon horde at the Battle of The Twin-Lake Mountain in the Outlands.

“Hurry up.” The aide is already waiting at the other end of the hall, though you haven’t dallied in the slightest. His manner is bored and irritated, perhaps he has other business to attend now that he is not showing devils to the Marshall.

The second door opens, and you see the Marshall seated casually behind a great bone desk. It’s a strange sight, to see the gruff, no-nonsense battle commander lounging languidly in a high-backed chair of rich ebony with thick cushions cased in burgundy velvet, puffing almost delicately on a pipe of glass from which issued a most sweet-scented smoke in utter contrast to the ambient aroma of Phlegethos. If ever you must be called before a pit fiend again, let it not be like this…

“The last three…” Kiu’roz smiles, a great, toothy, unsettling smile that twists impossibly on his face. He dismisses the aide, and you wonder for an instant if the Marshall’s mood is because he is at the end of a long list, or if he has been this “pleased” at the beginning of every meeting. You suspect the latter, which is no comfort.

“I have selected you for a very special assignment… with great opportunity for promotion… and you will accept. The work is very difficult and must be done with strict adherence to very distasteful specifications. You will have little oversight or direct support in the field.” Kiu’roz pauses, taking another pull on the glass pipe and exhaling a thick cloud toward you and your companions.

“In this book you will find the many… and there are many… rules, codes, stipulations, and addendums regarding your new assignment.” The book he indicates is the centerpiece of his desk, several hand-spans thick and as broad as the pit fiend’s chest. “Unfortunately, I only have this one copy in the room, so I will not bother you with the details.”

That’s another thing that twists inside the depths of your stomach.

“The broad strokes… you three are going Out.” The emphasis he puts on the word makes it a place unto itself. He is not talking about the Nine Hells. “And you are going to work miracles, after a fashion. Your first assignment, and relevant information to get you started, is in this scroll.”

He taps a scroll on his desk. The seal is unbroken and you wonder if you will be allowed to view its contents, or if it is another taunt.

“You may not have copies, so the three of you must share this one scroll.” Kiu’roz strokes his lower jaw with a great clawed finger. “And here is the first rule: you must not directly malign a native of the Prime Plane that you are on. You will not only draw attention to yourself, but your assignment may be invalidated and you may be destroyed… or worse.”

He’s hiding something behind the “or worse”… and the thing that bothers you most about it, is that he’s obviously hiding it.

“The second rule: you must submit to the limitations set forth in this book.” He sighs, likely already knowing the many questions that would spring to mind. “They will hamper you, yes… but they will not make you useless. You are, effectively, becoming Primes.”

“The third rule that you should be aware of before your begin your assignment: trust only you three. No others. When your assignment begins, do not even trust me. You will be given your orders via the scroll, do not lose it. If you cannot work together to accomplish your assigned tasks, you will be demoted or destroyed and readily replaced.”

Kiu’roz lets the words linger in the air a moment as he puffs lightly at the pipe… it is a curious sight, seeing a pit-fiend mesmerized by his pipe smoke.

“I do not need to tell you how disappointed I will be if you fail.” He smiles again, worms and maggots twist in you and for a moment you feel like a tortured petitioner. “Place your insignia at the indicated location at the bottom of the scroll and exit through the portal behind the door.”

The scroll opens as Kiu’roz finishes speaking… it grows large in your eyes, obscuring the room and filling your sight with the parchment… devilskin vellum, inked in demon blood (if the stink was any indication) and gilded in Celestial dust at the edges. You feel Power in the scroll. To sign is to obey… and to sign is to die… again. It’s a strange sensation, that certainty… more strange because you know you will not likely ever return to your place in Baator unless you succeed in this mission.

What is this mission? You see your insignia flash onto the scroll, filling a void beside two other insignias. The three of you are committed to the task.

Today, that task is to kill a devil.

Behind you, the portal flares to life. You can see grass… daylight… a Prime Plane… the mission is waiting… and soon, you will be weaker than you were before you signed… much more fragile than you have been in a long time. Excitement, fear, anticipation…

You have entered into a rarified battle of the Blood War. Marshall Kiu’roz Hellspit chose your team for this task.

The scroll’s contents begin to fill your mind as you turn toward the portal.

Ophrelux Goremaw, Hamatula of Dis, Initiate of the Second Circle of the Ebon Order, Sanctified Being of the Celestial Mount. Kill Goremaw for his failure, or capture him and return his soul to Baator.


End file.
